


Dirty Dancing

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Location-US, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young, blond stripper was Azrael, the Angel of Death on Tuesdays. He was the Saint on Thursdays. All Robbie knew was that he wanted that man every day of the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Body Shop - Ocean Beach, CA - Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perclexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perclexed/gifts).



> For perclexed--Happy Birthday! (Your prompt based on this photo seemed like a birthday wish. The prompt probably inspired others, too-god knows we need more pole-dancing Hathaway, but this fic is specifically for you today. *clinks glass*) 
>
>> Jailbait... [pic.twitter.com/NQ0oFyuuva](http://t.co/NQ0oFyuuva)
>> 
>> — Laurence Fox (@LozzaFox) [June 23, 2015](https://twitter.com/LozzaFox/status/613266046829621248)  
> 

Robbie rolled up his shirt sleeves trying to fit in with the men around him and regretted it immediately. The table was sticky with dried beer and the grains of margarita salt. Heavy bass pounded right between his eyebrows in time with his throbbing headache.

He hated this. Being undercover. Protecting a drug dealer on the verge of giving them a network of distributors. He was positioned so that he could see the guy wiping down the bar in the mirror on the far wall. It meant he was sitting close to the stage, though. Real close.

He nursed his beer and wished for Tylenol. The bartender caught his eye in the mirror and deliberately smirked, enjoying Robbie's discomfort. Tuesdays and Thursdays were Boy's Nights and for some reason Robbie tended to attract the attention of the young men. Probably because he didn't whoop or drool or generally make an ass of himself reaching out to grab at them as they stripped and danced or moved among the patrons serving drinks. He was safe, he supposed. A kindly father figure, not a threat and willing to simply watch. He tipped, too, and not by shoving dollar bills into their G-strings. It was a small gesture of respect. Just because they were taking off their clothes didn't mean you had the right to touch them intimately. It was something he learned from arresting guys who spent most of their waking moments in clubs like this: regular patrons wait to be invited to touch. Respect. It would keep you off the bouncer's shit list.

'Course he was like that with the young women, too. Respectful. He'd been at it for over a couple of weeks, after all, and he was well on his way to becoming a permanent fixture, like the metal dance poles on the stage. Every evening, one or two beers, Tuesday through Saturday.

With the young women there was a constant sense of negotiation even if he wasn't interested, as if they were scoping him out to see if perhaps they could convince him that it would be worth his while to go to the back of the club to get off. Drop to their knees for twenty bucks. Lap dance in the private area for fifty. Some of them had a very real sense of desperation, as if they had kids waiting for them at home. He'd just as soon give them the money, really. Others seemed to expect bigger tips. They waitressed with their breasts and if they got his drink order wrong, it was somehow his fault. In any event, most of them reminded him far too much of his daughter for comfort.

The guys seemed to understand that if he said 'no' once that evening he wasn't going to change his mind fifteen minutes later. He preferred the men, actually, because he was more comfortable with their reasons for stripping. The men actually seemed to enjoy dancing—they got off on it. They worked out and enjoyed showing off their efforts to an appreciative crowd. And their music choices were far more interesting.

Especially this lad. Blond, tall, lithe, and completely oblivious to the audience.

Massive Matt, Boner, Kinky Kevin, The Whip, Cowboy Bob—all of the others had fun, playful names and routines. Not this guy.

On Tuesdays he was Azrael the Angel of Death. On Thursdays he was the Saint.

The first time Robbie saw him, he wore black. Not that it was special, wearing black, but his skin was such a pale gold color, his hair so blond and fine that his face seemed to float against the black backdrop of the stage. He didn't dance—that was the wrong word. He certainly didn't strip—though he slowly removed his clothes as he moved. No, it was more that he became the music.

A medley of hard rock oldies— _Born to Be Wild, Sympathy for the Devil_ —the mix sounded professional, portions of songs seguing into the next to make up a four minute set. It was a far cry from the stuttered portions of songs cobbled together by most of the performers. He'd dance four times on Tuesdays, his sets becoming progressively happier. It was as if he was transforming himself from dark to light over the course of the evening.

Unlike most of what Robbie had been subjected to, it was riveting watching the man move. A pleasure, in fact.

Bit unexpected, that. Feeling that pull, that heat.

Robbie didn't delude himself that Azrael had noticed him, though. The young man seemed to be in his own world—not in the druggie way of some of the dancers, but focused in a very real way on the music, as if he played an instrument and that instrument was his body.

Robbie wondered if he was classically trained, he had such control over his movements. He'd start off close to the floor, the stage mics would pick up the squeak-rub of his leather motorcycle jacket and leather chaps—it was a kink, Robbie knew, and the largely male audience on Tuesday nights seemed to appreciate the sounds and the slick wet look of the leather under blue stage lights.

He wore sunglasses as he danced—they were usually the last to come off, too, as if baring his eyes was too revealing. Most of the other dancers were anxious to make eye contact with the patrons—that's what you did to make tips. Look at me, look at me—yes, I want to fuck you. Look at me. But not this young man. He didn't seem to care. There'd be the slow zip of the jacket, the sudden reveal of a tight black t shirt, the chest-thrust -out strut to center stage, demanding their attention. And it wasn't the man's body so much as his attitude as he stripped. Oh, he was ripped in a wiry way, compact muscles on a lanky frame, his back, shoulders, and thighs hard as if he was an athlete.

He knew he was appealing, knew that he was good to look at. Tasty, one of the patrons called him.

But his attitude was steamy and dark. Hot and dirty. It reminded Robbie of warm summer nights and tight jeans, of the sort of activities that would get you pummeled if you were anywhere other than Canal Street in Manchester. It made him think of wiping sweat from his forehead, a cold bottle of beer in one hand and his hand tangled in the hair of a bloke swallowing him down.

Azrael's dancing reminded Robbie of the days when he was the bad boy. The cute one in the band. The one that everyone wanted.

He'd watch the young man pose on the floor, tight black t-shirt and black leather pants, rising up, thighs tensing, the impossible way that Azrael would allow the music to pull him up onto the pole, straddling it and bending backward like a gymnast, blond head to the floor, his crotch moving up and down the metal to the beat of the music. Fucking the pole. He was back lit with a rosy glow so that the line of his body was a perfect arc-groin to head.

And then he would flip.

It was a startling, gutsy move for a male stripper, and he'd get huge applause, though he didn't seem to care. He'd toss it off, like his t-shirt, and then you could see the barely sculptured abs, the strength hidden beneath plain cotton. Not defined—taut. It made the muscles look like an affectation.Then he would move his hands slowly over his pale skin, his hands lingering just beneath his nipples. A beat. Waiting.

Of course someone would shout. And depending on the evening, depending on his mood, depending on the audience, he might give his nipples a bit of attention that made Robbie's mouth go dry for the want of it. Then he'd slowly move his hands to his shoulders, to the sides of his neck, finally supporting the back of his head, tilting it back with an expression of release.

Robbie would swear that everyone in the place felt those hands on their necks moving to the sides of their heads. It made him wonder what this young man was like in bed.

He hadn't thought about a man in twenty years.

And then Azrael would tug off the leather trousers to hoots and demands, his hands rubbing the inside of his hard thighs as if he was grateful to have them off just so that he could move, squatting low and dropping his head, his body seemingly bowed by the sheer weight of the lights.

Where other dancers would make their way along the edge of the stage, at that point, thrusting for patrons to put money in their G-strings, Azrael would turn his back and dance center stage. His bare shoulders, back and buttocks would gleam blue from the one overhead spot light in the middle of the dance floor.

His hips would move sinuously as if he was approaching a lover and then the set would change, speeding up, and there'd be this powerful twist to face the audience and he'd stride to the front—angry, almost, dangerous—as if he'd caught the audience being naughty.

And his arms would go wide like wings and there would be a moment where he seemed poised to take flight. In that moment he'd whip off the glasses, his expression cold and forbidding.

The stage would go dark.

The audience would go nuts.

That moment when the stage went dark was always a problem for Robbie because all it would take would be a single gunshot to take out the guy he'd been assigned to protect. Just one bullet.

His relief was palpable when the lights came back on. Azrael never took bows, and tonight was the first time Robbie had ever seen the young man weaving between the patrons with a drink tray. He wore the black t-shirt, tight jeans, and sunglasses.

Robbie clutched a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, raising it high above his head. He just wanted—

Hell, he didn't know what he wanted. Maybe it was just to make contact, like meeting a celebrity.

"Beer?"

Christ, the man's voice was deep, like chocolate, warm, melting. And he seemed—young. Not quite diminished, more that he was trying not to power his way through the crowd using his height.

"What's on tap?" Robbie knew damn well what was on tap, but he needed to keep this man talking. He wanted him to say Heineken, Michelob. Wanted to hear every beer they carried. And then he'd ask about mixed drinks. Wines.

"You usually drink Stella," said the young man, a faint smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"How do you know what I drink?"

The young man inclined his head slightly, the smile taking over the corner of his mouth. "I notice things."

"Like?" _Have I blown my cover, then? Does he know I'm a cop?_

Azrael took the twenty, his fingers curling over Robbie's hand, and he leaned close. "I'll bring you a Stella and I'll come back to talk when the crowd thins out."

Robbie's mouth went dry. He watched as the young man moved through the crowd, his body swiveling effortlessly so that he barely made contact with a soul.

Robbie's hand tingled. He took a deep breath.

The next set started. He barely noticed. He was focused on the crowd, waiting for another glimpse of the young man. A bottle of Stella appeared on the table and he rose to see if it had been delivered by Azrael, but the crowd had already closed back, as if mending a rip.

Robbie took a long pull from the bottle, watching the bartender in the mirror as things began to slow down. The bartender gave him the finger and turned back to the taps. Cowboy Bob was line dancing in front of him, boots clomping on the floor, the country music twanging and irritating him on a level he hadn't thought possible.

Azrael had danced barefoot, Robbie remembered. He wondered, irrationally, whether Azrael was wearing shoes. Wondered what he did during the day. Wondered if he'd come back to talk with the old fart who had taken to sitting on this side of the stage for the last two weeks.

It was past time for him to leave. The bartender had come by, given his table a cursory swipe with a dirty rag, and hissed that he was going the fuck home. Robbie congratulated him sarcastically on staying alive for another day and thumbed a text to the car outside that would take the guy to his apartment.

He sighed. He could leave now, if he wanted. Massive Matt was up next. Not much of a dancer or stripper, but he took it all off and he was hung like a horse. Robbie had only seen him once, but Matt had received the message loud and clear to keep his cock on the other side of the stage. Robbie might have been a regular, but he wasn't interested in accidents of anatomy. He had his back to the stage, looking through the crowd for Azrael.

"He hates that," Azrael said, sliding into the chair beside Robbie. "People who don't watch." His sunglasses picked up the reflections from the stage lights. He set two Stellas on the table. "Bought you another."

Robbie reached for his wallet only to have Azrael put his hand out to touch his arm. "Allow me."

_Shit._

Robbie gulped, hard, and then recovered, dusting off memories of how to flirt. He had a feeling they'd all be horribly inadequate.

Azrael was giving him this indulgent look, as if he was waiting. As if he was interested.

"Oh, thanks! Christ, sorry. It's—it's the glasses, man. Think you could talk with me without them?"

"And blow my cover?"

 _Shit._ Robbie bit his bottom lip. No, he knew he didn't look like a cop, not here. "Your cover? You a spy?"

"Grad student."

"Ah. What’s your major?"

"Would you believe that I have a theology degree?"

Robbie raised his eyebrows. Hadn't seen that coming. "Makes sense, I suppose, given your stage names."

"Not many people know where 'Azarel' comes from."

Robbie took a pull of his beer. "I, uh, had a partner who was well-read. I suppose I remember the name from one of his crosswords."

"Oh. I'm sorry. How long were you together?"

"Eight years, but he's been gone for ten."

"Long time to be alone." Azrael turned his empty beer bottle this way and that, fiddling. "Say, I need a cigarette. Come outside with me, keep me company."

No. Robbie's face fell. Ah, hell, the guy was hustling. He felt disappointed—and a little excited, too, since now he could take advantage of the offer with a bit of impunity. It was still a misdemeanor, but on this side of town everyone turned a blind eye.

The young man tapped the top of his hand with a long forefinger. "Not offering anything except a smoke." His fingers danced along Robbie's forearm making him shiver.

Robbie finished his beer and heaved himself out of his seat to follow him out of the bar.

The night air was warm and smelled of beer and fried food. They sat down on the bench outside the bar, the muffled thump-thump of the music behind them. Robbie leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and regarded the young man lounging beside him, his arm carelessly thrown over the back of the bench. He knew he wanted to ask how a theology major could become a stripper, knew that the money was probably good, knew the answers to the first ten questions in his head—obvious, really. And he wanted to show that he was different.

For some reason, it was important to show that he wasn't the usual run of the mill bar rat.

He wanted this young man to like him.

Though he sensed that Azrael wouldn't have been interested even in something as innocent as passing the time having a smoke if Robbie hadn't done something extraordinary. He didn't want to bugger up this interlude.

"Did you study ballet?"

The young man leaned forward, the streetlamps reflected in the sunglasses. His lips curved into what might have been a delighted smile if he'd allow it. "Never been asked that before. No, but I'm flattered you think so."

"You're very graceful. Restrained. I thought at first you must be a gymnast," Robbie tried to stop the words from tumbling out, but he couldn't. "But you're too tall—they'd never let you compete. Then I thought, ballet. And now—don't laugh—I'm thinking you must have been trained in something like Tai Kwon do or yoga."

"I have a black belt." Again, the curve of the mouth.

Christ, he had an amazing mouth.

Robbie rubbed his palms on his thighs and sat back against the bench. Score one for the old copper. He let the silence grow between them because it was a comfortable one.

The young man finished his cigarette and flicked it away, the sparks dancing across the road.

"Littering," Robbie said, almost clapping his hand over his mouth for making the observation.

"Are you a cop?"

 _Well, that's it then. Lie? Truth?_ "Yeah." He scratched his cheek. "Name's Lewis. Robbie Lewis. I'd rather not let it get around, being a cop, I mean."

"James Hathaway," replied the young man. He removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that gave him an ageless look. "Understood. Though I think some of the female dancers have figured it out."

Christ. "Well, it's important that no one talk about it. I don't suppose you can take care of that? Maybe put the word out that I'm—I dunno—"

They were interrupted by the sound of heels clicking against the pavement and women's voices.

James leaned in to Robbie, slid his arms around his neck, and kissed him, saying loudly, "Don't play with me, Robbie. Tell me what you want." He kissed him again and tossed a casual, "Evening, ladies," over his shoulder.

Robbie simply stared at him, his face hot and his hands pressed to the man's back. It had been a quick kiss, tobacco and beer and the brush of stubble. One of James's hands cradled his jaw.

"Fuck, take it behind the building, guys." The women went into the bar.

James's hand dropped, leaving Robbie feeling bereft, but his arm was still around Robbie's shoulders. "There. No one will ever suspect you now. I've given you a reputation."

"Thanks." He could barely manage to get the word out. "I appreciate it," he said, more forcefully.

James inclined his head, his expression coy. "Will I see you on Thursday?"

Robbie nodded, dumbstruck.

James pulled back and then, very slowly, pressed his cheek against Robbie's, brushing his nose against his temple and breathing hot into his ear. He hummed agreeably. "Let's continue this on Thursday, then. Goodnight, Robbie."

"'Night, James."

James turned at the door. "You didn't call me 'Jim.'"

"Should I?"

"Never."

Robbie rose, put his hands into his pockets and jingled his keys. He looked away, smiled, and as he turned to go, he glanced back. James was watching him. He had his hands in his pockets too. He bounced on his toes and ducked his head, smiling to himself.

Robbie's breath caught. He huffed a laugh. "Better go." He paused, not wanting to leave.

James met his eyes. "Thursday, then."


	2. The Body Shop - Ocean Beach, CA - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to both Skyebabycat for beta-reading (and for her patience as I battled LJ) and Perclexed for beta-reading (and for her admirable restraint in not killing me for asking her to look over her own birthday fic).

"You fuckin' did that on purpose!" The woman at the bar wiped at her chest, while the bartender smirked at her from beneath a bandana wrapped around his head and mopped at the spill of gin puddling on the bar top. "Motherfuckin' asshole," she muttered. "Get me another."

Robbie rubbed his forehead. He could hear the dancer bitching at the bartender from his post at the corner of the stage. He hated Wednesdays. Two of the women dancers looked young enough to be very underage and it made him squirm. He wondered why the hell his division was concentrating on drugs when these—well, they looked like children!—were up there parading around in short schoolgirl skirts and strutting stuff that looked like it still needed to ripen, in his opinion. Made him uncomfortable. But they'd checked before the undercover operation began: every woman up there was of age. Still.

He worried that seeing it on parade like that would push someone into trying it on with a kid. Thought about saying something to the dancer at the bar.

On Wednesdays, he'd turn toward the stage, keeping the bartender in sight by watching the mirror along the wall, and he'd sip his beer. Felt embarrassed for even being there. He knew the location of every hanging light on that stage because he was looking beyond the ladies. Knew the exit to the alley was behind that black curtain. He had worked Vice back in the day, he knew that 'exotic dancing' wasn't the money-making job these women hoped for to fund their college education. Or their longed-for breast enlargements.

He didn't like the usual Wednesday crowd either. Oh, it was ladies night, so it was a mixed bag—men and women--but the men who came to watch on Ladies Night were a little skeevy.

There was a hen party tonight, too—no, bachelorette party, he reminded himself. He'd been in the States now ever since he left the British Virgin Islands—couldn't bear to go back to Oxford, not after Val.

He recalled Val joking about 'dirty dancing'—she'd never seen a male stripper, always hoped she'd get to, and would he mind doing a turn or two? Pretend to be Patrick Swayze? _Give us a sexy shoulder roll, Robbie and drop your jeans!_ He remembered her laughing when he did—Val had a great laugh. Christ, his mates were stunned when he took up with her. A woman! But his best friend.

Hadn't had a friend like Val in years.

He saw a guy escorting a woman—had to be his wife, they had an 'established couple' air about them. Probably looking to spice up things in the bedroom. He would have been mortified to take Val to a strip club as he never went himself unless it was part of his job. Not something a happily married man does, now is it?

Morse went, though, a time or two. Said it was as good a place as any for an unattached bloke to get a drink.

A few more women came in, laughing and carrying on. He wondered what the hell women were doing watching other women strip and then he caught them enjoying themselves—laughing and bouncing in their seats, their arms draped around each other--well, that was all right, then. Good for them, trying it on. I kissed a girl and I liked it—wasn't that a song?

Although, maybe they just got the night wrong and had come in hoping to see male strippers. Or maybe the happy couple was gay. Or maybe these women were just curious. Consenting adults, after all. Robbie wanted to tell them to try it all, enjoy it all—just be safe about it. Condoms, safe words.

Protect your feelings most of all. Don't confuse lust and love.

Morse used to say he was all in favor of consensual sex. He just wished more people would consent to having sex with him. Still made Robbie chuckle, thinking of that, knowing that Morse, like everyone else, was looking for love.

Or the illusion of love. Whatever.

Anyway, it was hardly his business what these young women were up to. The male patrons were paying a bit too much attention, though, to the girl-on-girl lip-locks, and he hoped that the guys wouldn't get out of hand. The regular bouncer wasn't there and he hoped the bartender wouldn't have to call the cops.

The other cops, he reminded himself. He sipped his beer. Not many coppers would complain over getting an undercover job watching a bartender in a strip bar.

Not that he was complaining. He just wasn't enjoying it all that much. Not really. He wanted it to be Thursday.

He grinned and looked at the table, feeling a bit silly. He had a date.

He, Robbie Lewis, had a date.

Well, not really. James (Azrael the Angel of Death) was probably having him on, flirting to have something to do. He'd only kissed him to make the two of them look like an item. Most likely he kissed guys all the time.

No, no. James didn't seem like the sort. Whatever else he was—and he seemed to be an unusual guy—he wasn't the sort. For all his display of skin on stage, he seemed clothed in mystery and shadows.

Robbie snuffled a laugh. _Christ. Mystery and shadows. What an imagination._

So, a date.

Yeah, he thought, that was unusual. His eyes widened as his sipped his beer, grinning.

"Happy to see me?" said the female dancer from the bar, sitting beside him, and setting her drink on the table.

_What the hell?_

He raised his eyebrows. He had no idea why she was sitting there with him. He certainly didn't want her there, sitting in his line of sight. Name was—he searched his memory—Astrid. Emphasis on the first syllable.

"You're here every night," she began, tapping long, elaborately manicured artificial nails on the tabletop. "Got a favorite girl?" She smiled, knowingly, leaning in, her breast brushing against his elbow. Her breath smelled of gin. She had to be in her late thirties.

Robbie recovered quickly. "Oh, well, they're all a bit young for me."

"But I'm not," James slid onto the empty chair on the other side of Robbie. He took Robbie's hand and interlaced their fingers. "How's it going?"

She gave James a sour look. "Oh, for crying out loud, Angel." She turned to address Robbie. "Look, I don't care what you two get up to, but if you're having a 'thing' then be fair and give my girls a break. If you're taking up this table and you're not interested in women, you're keeping them from getting tips by sitting so close."

Robbie sighed, looking up at the bartender in the mirror. The guy flashed him a leering grin and shook his head, as if to say, 'Your problem now, buddy.'

Then Robbie focused on James—who smelled like he'd just showered and brushed his teeth and whose hair still looked damp and soft and gold in the light—who was still holding his hand, and who shouldn't have been there on a Wednesday.

He couldn't help but smile at James who smiled back. "Isn't it your day off?"

James raised their joined hands and rubbed Robbie's knuckles gently against his lips before sharing a look with him and setting their hands back onto the table.

 _Christ, that mouth._ The corners of the man's lips curled up slightly like a villain's moustache.

"Tell you what," said Robbie to Astrid, wanting her to disappear. "I like this table. Like the angle, like seeing the door in the mirror."

The woman arched a penciled-in eyebrow. Waiting.

"Just like to keep an eye on things, get a bit of advanced notice in case people come in that I don't care for. So, here's what I'll do. Where I'm from, the lassies take up a collection each time before they dance. They take around a beer mug, collect a pound coin. Oh, roughly a dollar per dance."

"Seriously? Are you shitting me?"

Robbie shrugged. "I don't make the rules. You say they're your girls, can you collect for them? Dollar per dance?" Robbie cast his gaze sideways and saw the subtle tilt of James's head, as if to say: _Okay, then. Might work._

Robbie's heart warmed. It had been a long time since he'd been able to communicate with someone by using a gesture as clever as a glance.

"Five dollars?" Astrid pushed against him and that was no soft breast against his elbow: it felt like molded plastic, silicone gone hard.

"Two." He calculated the current exchange rate. "Two. Might be more for certain girls," he thought of a young woman who always seemed near tears. "I might want to spread what little I have around, share the wealth, so to speak. But I keep this table. Deal?"

"Fine." She rose, her fingertips still pointedly on the table. Waiting.

"One more thing. Give some thought, would you, to the schoolgirl look. Pervs don't tip." Robbie slid over forty bucks. "I don't stay as long on Wednesdays."

She pursed her lips, giving him a sour look before crumpling the bills in her fist. She strode quickly away toward the backstage area.

"'Angel?'" Robbie asked, inclined his head and looking at James from the side.

"Nickname." He shrugged, releasing Robbie's hand. "I hope you don't mind. Holding your hand like that. She'll give them the money. In case you were wondering."

"I know. I'm a good judge of character." Robbie looked away, rolling his eyes at his own arrogance. "What I mean is—"

"—I know what you mean. And you are."

"I just want to make sure that I have enough to pass on to—I think her name's Jenny?—that she gets something more."

"She's gone. No, no—she's okay." James put his hand on Robbie's forearm. "She got into a Catholic Charities program with her baby." He took back his hand, as if he hadn't intended to touch Robbie, and rested his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of him. He cocked his head, waiting for a response.

"That's good, then. I was—worried about her, I guess."

"Do you always take responsibility for the strippers you like?"

"Exotic dancers. And no, I don't." Robbie sipped his beer, a little irritated that James might see him as a soppy old man. Or an easy touch. Well, he wasn't, not at all. His gaze swept over the stage—rose colored lights and a woman writhing on the stage floor to a dissonant rap number—and he wondered why it was only vaguely arousing.

But sitting next to James, whose knee was barely touching his, whose shoulder not quite touched his? Hell, he was half-hard just sitting there looking at the man in profile.

"You have a sense of decency," James observed.

Oh, that's a cock block, Robbie thought.

James sipped his beer and looked at Robbie over the glass, meeting his eyes.

Robbie's breath caught and held. _Not a cock block, then. Not at all._

James's gaze wavered then, and he swept his eyes over the stage, the mirror, the bar. "It's a bit unusual in this environment. Decency." When his eyes came back to Robbie's, he seemed more in control.

 _Glad I'm not the only one feeling this—whatever the fuck this is._ Robbie leaned his shoulder into James's shoulder as if he was casually stretching and felt the hard muscle against his flesh.

James didn't move, but—was he blushing? Some trick of the lights?

Robbie felt his face flush. _Could reach over, put my hand on his thigh, see if this ends right now._ He took a deep breath to muster up his courage, and glanced in the mirror. Another group of women entered the bar, all giggles and high heels. He was supposed to be working. His eyes snapped to the bartender, still safe behind the bar.

"Guess you see all types. How long have you been working here? And why aren't you doing something with your day off?" Robbie didn't want to drive the man away, but the bar was getting progressively harder to monitor with the number of people showing up for this damn bachelorette party.

And he really didn't want to feel this way when he had a job to do. Distracted and hot.

"I've been here for five or six weeks." James ignored the other question and looked into the mirror. "Nice view of the bar."

The hairs went up on the back of Robbie's neck. "It is." He dragged his gaze from the mirror to the young man beside him. James wore a dark long sleeved shirt, jeans. Non-descript, almost sloppy, and unaccountably close.

James moistened his lips, chewing on the bottom a bit as if a dirty thought occurred to him, the corner of his mouth edging up.

Robbie stared. _Could watch him do that for hours. Like to nibble that lip myself._ He let out a sharp breath and then remembered why he was there. He tore his eyes away and looked at the mirror. Yeah, the fucker at the bar was still there serving watered down drinks, but now he was talking to someone. Really talking with someone that Robbie had never seen before. Huge guy in a long leather jacket.

_Ah, Christ._

Robbie glanced at James, who was watching the mirror with interest.

_Shit. What if James is involved? No, no, no. Not him. Please, God, not him._

"I'll get us another," James said, rising to go to the bar.

He was gone before Robbie could stop him—his hand raised to grab James's arm.

The bartender suddenly scratched his head, their signal that yes, this big guy at the bar was one of the big distributors in the drug ring.

He didn't even see how James managed to get to the bar—it was like watching a ninja. He was suddenly there, next to this guy the size of a refrigerator: broad, tall, muscle-bound. His eyes were tiny in a fleshy face, but it didn't stop him from looking directly into the mirror as if he could see right into Robbie's soul.

And there was James, right next to the guy, talking with him as if he knew him.

_Fuck._

Robbie thumbed a number on his phone beneath the table, sending an alert to the plainclothes cop monitoring from across the street, barely taking his eyes off the mirror. He watched in horror as James leaned against the man's shoulder, just for a moment, and then turned to disappear into the crowd again.

All Robbie could see was a mass of people standing at the bar—women sitting at tables. How big was this fucking wedding party going to be, anyway—was every single lady in the county here?

"The thing with mirrors is that you can be seen as well," James breathed into Robbie's ear. He set their Stellas down on the table. His hand came up to Robbie's jaw and Robbie dragged his gaze from the mirror to James's eyes. "He's still there." James's eyes were blue green in the dim light of the club; he seemed to be looking just past Robbie, though his long fingers were warm against Robbie's face. He leaned close and whispered hot almost against Robbie's mouth, "He sees us."

I don't fucking care if he sees us! Robbie wanted to yell. Don't know what the hell is going on here, and—

James was kissing the corner of his mouth, eyes open and focused. He was watching the fucking mirror!

Robbie started to draw back, but James's hand moved to the back of his neck, holding him fast and strong. He whispered against his mouth: "Please. Let me. Just—there. He's lost interest. Homophobe."

James pressed his forehead to Robbie's and Robbie heard James swallow audibly. His hand was still at the back of Robbie's neck.

"James," Robbie pulled back, checking out the mirror. Refrigerator man was still there and—thank god—there was the plainclothes cop and his partner at the bar. "What the fuck was that about?"

James took a pull on his beer, not looking at him. "He asked why you were staring. I told him you were my boyfriend and you were the jealous type."

"What?" Robbie stared, his mouth pursed and angry. "You could've been hurt."

James shrugged, uncaring and not looking at him. He acknowledged the words with a slight nod. "He was far more interested in you than me. I was keeping you safe."

 _Him keeping me safe. Be a cold day in hell when a civilian—a theology student!—saves me. Me, a cop for over thirty years._ "Do you know him well?"

James raised his eyebrows, staring at the table. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't know him at all. Never saw him before tonight." He met Robbie's eyes.

 _Fine._ Robbie could see a truth there, and something else, too, that wasn't quite truth. He didn't want to examine it too closely because now he saw that the young man wasn't nearly as young as he first thought. Mid-thirties, he reckoned, and for some reason, it made him feel better knowing that James was a bit older than he'd first thought. He could see the fine lines creasing his forehead and the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes not hidden by expert stage makeup. He could see the furrows deepening between his eyebrows as he regarded Robbie. "I don't do—this. Not usually. Not ever, actually."

"What? You mean save people?" Robbie said, irritably.

"Oh, I save people all the time," James said, offhanded and casual. He absently picked at the edges of the beer bottle label, his gaze fixed on the mirror. "He's leaving. Has company."

Robbie turned to watch. There was a plainclothes cop on either side of the guy, escorting him outside.

Man the size of a fridge, there was no way that those two cops alone could keep him down if things went south. He had a bad feeling about this. "You need a cigarette?" Robbie finished up his beer as he rose.

James tossed back his beer, smoothly rising and moving quickly to his side. "Let's go out the back, come around the front. Less noticeable."

Robbie was already moving to the exit he knew behind the curtain, confident, alert. And protected.

Hadn't felt that way, really felt that way, in years. James had his back.

And he really had no idea who this guy was. Maybe being a theology student put him on the side of the angels. He sure as hell hoped that the nickname held true.

James edged past him, and took his hand, holding it up like he'd won first prize as they fled through the women's dressing room.

Hardly a dressing room, Robbie thought, more of a makeup space. No one noticed except one dancer who hooted, "Way to go, Angel-baby!"

"You have admirers," Robbie said, as the back door slammed behind them. He wondered how he stacked up among them.

It was dark, the night sky edging into magenta at the horizon. The warm outside air was a relief, though it smelled of garbage, urine, vomit. He heard the wet thwap sound of someone being serviced behind the dumpster. One of the young female dancers, wearing a Japanese robe, was talking on her phone and smoking a joint. The smell of pot was in the air, heavy and strong.

James dropped his hand and hurriedly lit a cigarette, continuing to move along the side of the building to the front, Robbie close behind. Their shoes crunched on the loose gravel in the small parking lot. A line of pink neon lights buzzed above them, a counterpoint to the thumping bass in the bar.

One of the acts inside the joint used an air horn as part of their act. Robbie stopped, startled, and listened for a moment. Footsteps. Coming closer. He saw the dark, hulking outline of the guy in the bar.

James pressed his hand to Robbie's shoulder and pushed him against the wall.

He stood solidly in front of Robbie, one hand on his shoulder, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips. Robbie's hand went to James's waist, to hold him there, wanting them both to disappear against the painted cinderblock of the building, just a few more anonymous figures in the darkness.

James's face was close, he didn't even seem to be breathing, he was so still. His eyes glittered in the dim light; he leaned forward, pressing his closed mouth against Robbie's, hard, as if he wanted to force it to open.

Robbie almost whimpered. _Not the fucking time for this!_ James was insistent, the footsteps coming closer, pressing against his lip hard enough to hurt. Robbie opened his mouth, getting a lungful of cigarette smoke, and he began coughing, hard, almost choking. He bent over.

"Hey," James whispered loudly, "take it in and hold it down into your lungs. Yeah. C'mon, man, don't waste it."

Robbie's eyes watered, he continued to cough and sputter. Christ. Not like they were smoking—oh. He was a fool. The heavy footsteps passed slowly, the man in the bar heading for the parking lot. _Where were the other cops?_ He had to find the plainclothes cops.

James pressed him against the building, bringing his lips close to his ear. "Don't move. He's coming back." James raised his voice, seductive. "That's it, man. And I'll do you for twenty-five because I like you, but we gotta go to my car out front. Don't want an audience."

The footsteps slowed, as if the guy was taking in the scene behind the building. Meandering as if he owned the place.

_Maybe he did._

Robbie closed his eyes and pulled James nearer, putting his head against his shoulder, and said, as dreamily as he could muster despite the line of sweat running down his back, "Yeah, yeah. Can I have some more. Stronger pot than I'm used to." He glanced at James and felt the man subtly relax into him. Been a long time since he had been undercover, but he knew how the game worked.

He was just surprised that James knew.

And surprised as hell that James was as hard as he was.

"There's more in my car." James kissed him.

They heard the footsteps walk quickly away, a hiss of disgust. "Fucking faggots."

They waited a beat and then they were on the move, Robbie leading the way, James following.

"No," whispered James softly. "Too fast."

"I want some more of that and I want you. Now." Robbie said, knowing he was loud enough to be heard as he came around the corner of the building, his feet sliding to a stop in the gravel. He paused, glancing around the corner before reaching back to grab James's hand to pull him along. "Where's your car?" His voice sounded anxious, not stoned. He looked up the street and saw the guy just a few yards from them, his bulk a good match for the SUV he climbed into.

James put his arms around Robbie's neck and turned them both around, nuzzling into his neck so that Robbie could see the back of the car as it slowly drove off.

"Did you get the plates?" James rubbed the top of his head against Robbie's cheek.

"I did." Robbie waited for James to back away, waited for an explanation.

James pulled him closer.

Robbie huffed a laugh and put his arms around the man's waist. He needed to find out what had happened to the other cops, but until the car turned the corner, he was still in sight and this wonderful, inventive man was still vulnerable.

Yeah, and if that hulking guy pulled a gun and took a shot from the SUV as he went around the corner, James would be the one to go down first. He resisted Robbie's efforts to turn their bodies, though. James held him in place, his strong legs braced on the outside of Robbie's. "Don't, Robbie. He can still see us."

Robbie took a moment and stared at James, who was giving him this bemused, indulgent look. He took James's chin in his hand, brushing his thumb against the jawline, tracing the line of an old scar. He kissed the scar there, pressing gentle, tiny kisses along that swash on his sturdy chin on the way to that perfect mouth.

James made a little sound, grinding into him, and Robbie felt giddy, pulling back, amazed that this—whatever the hell it was—was happening to him. Amazed that he was letting it. He heard the SUV speed up to take the corner at the end of the block, but he couldn't take his eyes off James.

The younger man was staring at his mouth, his eyes half-shut, his head slightly tilted.

 _We need to talk,_ Robbie thought. _No way is this man a stripper._

He gripped James's upper arms, hard, giving him a curt nod, as James took a step back. Robbie wrenched his attention away, looked across the street, at the empty Toyota that the plainclothes cop and his partner used, and looked at the door to the bar where the asshole bartender was that he was supposed to protect.

"I'll check the bar," James said, heading for the front door.

Robbie started for the street, afraid of what he might find in the car. "James."

The young man turned as he walked.

"Be careful."

James gave him a nod, whipped open the door—

—and the front of the bar exploded.


	3. The Body Shop - Ocean Beach, CA - Wednesday Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Perclexed for beta reading, editing and hanging in there. And a huge thank you to Willowbrooke for beta, editing, re-editing, and for pushing me to turn up the heat in this chapter so that the story could continue to be the one the readers had signed up for. Any errors that remain are mine.

"James!" 

Robbie picked himself up from the pavement, already moving toward the heavy smoke billowing from the building. No flames. Too much smoke. Not an explosion, then. Canister or two of tear gas? And—smoke bombs? 

_Bloody hell._

He pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose as he quickly made his way to the entrance to the building. The bartender, who was _his_ responsibility, was still in there and there'd be hell to pay if the man did a runner. 

But more important than that, James was in there, and Robbie had no way of knowing if he had been hurt.

Robbie pushed against the crowd swarming out of the bar. Frightened and panicked, people were shoving their way out—stumbling, crying, disoriented—but the bouncer and others were bodily moving them out from the doorway so that no one was trampled. The door was hanging from one hinge. 

He hesitated, thinking he might have better luck getting inside if he went around to the back, and he started in that direction, but first he needed to check— 

—The Toyota belonging to the plainclothes cops was gone. He noticed that a couple of the dancers were leading people across the street to stand in the empty parking spot. 

_Bugger._

Still holding the edge of his shirt up over his nose and mouth, Robbie stopped a woman he'd seen in the bachelorette party group. "Anyone badly hurt in there?" _Protect and serve, first and foremost._

"Don't think so. Plenty pissed off, though." She wiped her eyes with a fist, leaving a smear of mascara on her pale face. "Smells like shit." 

"Get your friends together and get away from the smoke." He could hear sirens in the distance. "If anyone's having trouble breathing—" 

"—Tell the woman in black sequins over there, she's a nursing student," interrupted Astrid, the female dancer from the bar who had taken Robbie's money earlier. She took the woman's arm and pointed to the growing group of bar patrons standing across the street. "We're doing triage," she explained to Robbie. She put a hand on her hip and regarded him shrewdly. "First responder?" 

"Concerned citizen." Robbie dropped his ersatz shirt-mask and looked past her toward the back of the building where two of the dancers were standing holding baseball bats, as if they were protecting the back door from potential looters. Not going in the back, then. 

Astrid followed his gaze. "It's not the first time we've had an incident. Knife fights, robberies." She peered at his eyes. "You seem fine. Go over there till the fire department and the EMTs get here." Approaching sirens—couldn't be more than a quarter mile away. More dancers were coming around from the back, pulling patrons away from the building. The night was shrouded in the heavy fog typical along the coast; the acrid smell of chemicals and smoke was suspended in the moist air. 

"I need to get inside." 

She reached to grab his arm, but he took a step back. 

"Sorry, it's just that James—uh, Angel, was right there by the door when it happened. He hasn't come out."

She looked at him then, really looked at him, as if assessing his troublemaking potential or perhaps she reckoned he was a cop. He didn't care—he was going in, with or without her permission. She may have seen his determination, because she gave an exasperated sigh and waved her hand at the bouncer. "Let him go back in." 

He nodded his thanks, pulling his shirt back up over his nose and mouth. As he did so, the night air slicked the bare portion of his middle, making him feel clammy and overly exposed. 

He pushed and shoved his way inside, struggling to get in while others were trying to get out. He tripped over a toppled chair--the bar was pitch black inside except for the eerie flashes of glowing pink neon coming in from the open doorway. 

Someone must've cut the electrical inside. Premeditated, that. 

He elbowed his way to the bar, caught off guard by the overwhelming sense of relief he felt when he finally laid eyes on James. Seemingly unharmed, James was holding a bar rag over his mouth with one hand while gripping the upper arm of the bartender with the other, roughly propelling him toward the door. 

As Robbie took in the details of the scene, he saw that the taps had been opened behind the bar and water was overflowing the sink onto the floor. He also noted that the bartender had a bandanna tied over his nose and mouth and...goggles. The bartender had planned it. 

_The fucking bastard had planned it!_

James shoved the bartender toward Robbie. "I'll make sure all the dancers got out." 

And he disappeared back into the mist that hung in the darkened strip club. 

Robbie dragged the bartender out into the night, hoping that he'd see a police car outside the building and was rewarded with a vision: an armada of emergency response vehicles, lights flashing, police personnel in riot gear. 

_Christ._

The media was just beginning to arrive. 

If he could get the bartender out of sight, they might be able to convince the rest of the drug ring that the guy had evaded custody. They stopped beside an ambulance, away from the cameras. Robbie couldn't spot a police unit he was familiar with, though. Called in as a bomb, Fire-Rescue Units and an alphabet soup of inter-agency police response had showed up: CHP, OBPD, SDSO. And the plainclothes team from his division was MIA. 

As was James. 

The response seemed out of proportion to a mere drug ring and his skin prickled with foreboding. Something wasn't right here, and it wasn't just the business with James. 

Because James could have dropped a canister himself, couldn't he? Easy enough to do. Set it off as he entered. He might not have thought Robbie would make it inside. Might even be part of the drugs distribution chain himself. 

Hell, James might even be the leader. 

That would explain a lot. His willingness to snog a cop. Maybe he wanted to give the old guy a thrill, make him feel like James Bond for a night so he'd never suspect. 

Maybe he was planning to get rid of the bartender entirely. 

Or, maybe his objective was getting the bartender out and into the public eye, letting the rest of the drug ring know that one part of the snake's head had been cut off. They'd all head to ground for sure then. 

Yeah, pretend to frog march the bartender toward the front door, hand him over to the unsuspecting old fool of a cop and escape out the back using the ruse of checking for the other dancers when they were all outside already. Robbie and the bartender in front of the camera crews...that would work. The dancers would let James go, too, because he was one of them. 

And Robbie had been taken in. It surprised him, how much that hurt. 

What would be worse, Robbie wondered, losing the fucking bartender or losing a man that he was beginning to trust? A man he might come to call friend? Because there was something to that, that security in knowing that you'd found someone you might be able to trust. Someone to watch your back. A partner. Perhaps even more. He hadn't had thoughts like those in years. 

Right, well, at least he had the bartender in hand. Didn't look as though he was going far, either—water-soaked bandanna and goggles, for Christ's sake. "You all right?" 

"Like you give a fuck." 

Robbie sighed. He cared enough to want the man healthy enough to testify, but that was about it. He wanted to ask if James was part of it, if the bartender and James had cooked up this little scheme. He dragged the bartender with him toward one of the red Fire-Rescue ambulances, dodging a news crew. 

"Give us a minute, okay?" Robbie brushed off the grasping medical personnel with a growl, cursing himself for being an idiot—what had he been thinking, being distracted by a bloke like James and expecting—what? That James was actually interested in him? Either James was in on this or he had to be law enforcement. 

_Please, let him be a cop._

And what the hell had happened to his backup? Had the men in plainclothes followed the big guy in the SUV? Was it too much to hope that something, anything, had gone right? 

"The plainclothes unit isn't here." James's hand was heavy on his shoulder, coming up from behind him, doing his sneaky ninja, pussyfooting around thing again, his body pressed close. His voice was barely above a whisper, but Robbie wasn't sure if it was the closeness or the deep vibration of James's voice that gave him the shivers. 

His involuntary reaction to James pissed him off. He wasn't a bloody teenager. He'd been sitting in a strip club for weeks, what was it about this tall and lanky man that was getting the better of him? Distracting, that's what it was, and he didn't like it when he had a job to do. 

Robbie caught himself before he ripped into James to demand an explanation. Wouldn't do him any good to antagonize the only person who'd been of help so far—if help was what it was. But his impatience showed, because James seemed taken aback by his expression. 

"We need to talk, Robbie—I know—but he can't go back into DEA custody without getting the once over from the EMTs." James pulled a few cable ties from his pocket and hesitated, his eyebrows raised as he looked at Robbie. 

_Oh, now he's checking with me? Who the bloody hell does he think he is, anyway? And what's this now about the Drug Enforcement Agency?_ "He set off those canisters?" At James's nod, he continued, "then he poses a flight risk despite being in protective custody. _My_ custody, understand. I'd say cuff him." 

James quickly looped the cable ties over the protesting bartender's wrists. 

This wasn't going right at all, in Robbie's mind. It was a drug ring, for Christ's sake. Routine. If there was a second unit assigned, why didn't he know about it? Should have been a phone call or an email, at the very least. And how did James fit in? 

"The ties are too tight," whined the bartender. 

"Till I hear otherwise, you're still in protective custody and it's allowed," Robbie hissed, bristling. "Hell, they've brought the fucking bomb squad out for this stunt! Bloody terrorist." And, given this response, he might as well be an insurgent, for all that, though Robbie doubted it. The bartender was a weasel, but he didn't seem the bomber type. Still, it's always the quiet ones. 

He gave James another look. Quiet one if ever there was. 

James smiled slightly at Robbie, arching an eyebrow in an appreciative way. "Terrorist? I like that. Gives us a place to stash him, too, for two weeks, if need be. Should be just enough time to…" His voice trailed off as he searched for a likely looking EMT and inconspicuously flashed a badge to skip ahead in the line. 

Law enforcement then! Robbie had never been so happy to see a badge in his life. He caught James's eye and grinned, his eyebrows flickering up because he was delighted. Bloody hell! But it was the look that James gave him then that made his heart pound. 'Yes, I'm like you,' it said. 'Trust me,' it said. 

"This is a suspected terrorist—" James said to the EMT. 

"I'm not a fucking terrorist! I'm a drug dealer!" 

"A little louder," Robbie said, sarcastically. "I don't think the people across the street heard you. I—well, _we,_ wouldn't want you to get hurt before we get a chance to find out who you were planning to run off with." 

"And where," put in James. He glanced at Robbie, the corners of his mouth curling up. 

"Never know who might be out there with a gun looking for you," added Robbie, for good measure. 

The bartender narrowed his eyes, as if considering this. 

"Actually, that's a fair point. It's best if we get you into that ambulance now. For your own safety and that of the bystanders." James cast a look at the chaos around them. "You can't be seen." He glanced at Robbie. "We'll have to pretend that he made it out. And we can't appear to be anything other than what we were pretending to be." 

"What's that, then? Male stripper and his besotted rough trade?" 

James arched an eyebrow over eyes that were beginning to pink up. He gave an exasperated sigh. 

The sight of that cold metal badge had warmed Robbie's heart. He glanced at James, who was wiping his eyes with his fingertips. "You need to get that seen to." 

"And I will," James blinked as he sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Let's just get this settled." 

Stubborn sod, Robbie thought. He handed off the bartender to the EMT who put an orange blanket around the man's shoulders as they hustled him into the vehicle. "Keep an eye on him, he's slippery." 

"Fuck you." 

Robbie shrugged. James has a bloody badge! He ran his fingers through his hair and dropped his hands to his sides. 

He was more than ready for an explanation. 

He came back to stand beside James, who was watching as an armored and helmeted crew piloted a small remote camera into the building. A news crew was videotaping the proceedings. 

"They don't need to do that," James said, blinking his eyes. "I checked. It's clear. Nothing obvious, at any rate. Trace evidence, perhaps." 

"Are you an expert?" 

"In some things. Not in others." James said dryly. He wiped beneath his eyes with his fingertips, blinking. 

"Rubbing your eyes will make it worse," Robbie said gently. "Not a weapons expert, then." 

"Hardly. Look—" 

"—You're not going to ask me to table the conversation, are you?" said Robbie, aping the managerial idiom favored in his division.

James drew back aghast, his eyes wide. "I'd never use a noun as a verb." 

Robbie hid his smile by looking down. _So, there's the grad student, then._ He looked up to see James staring at him, the ghost of a smile lurking before he ducked his head, as if he'd shown too much. It was an endearing moment of weakness and Robbie sighed, a little sad, when he saw James put his guard up again. It reminded him of the expressionless mask James wore on stage—unperturbed and aloof. 

For all of the clothing that James had divested himself of on-stage, it was that mask that Robbie most wanted him to remove."I'll arrange to have him picked up," said James. 

"No, I'll call _my_ division." 

James's mouth tightened. "Given that he tried to escape, wouldn't it be more prudent to have the DEA take him in?" 

Robbie settled back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. "I really could do with that explanation, James. But go ahead, make the call." 

James straightened and reached out, his hand grasping Robbie's upper arm; he nodded before he let go to rub his eyes again. 

While the EMT treated the bartender—flushing his eyes and skin with water and applying ointment to his eyes—Robbie called in to the station, asking the desk sergeant to check the whereabouts of the plainclothes detail. 

James was on his phone too. He motioned for Robbie to get treated next, but Robbie waved in a few of the young ladies from the bachelorette party whose eyes were swollen shut and streaming tears. 

"I'm gonna sue The Body Shop," fumed a young woman, pressing a wet cloth to her reddened face. "Fucking ruined my shoes." 

"Shut up, Jesse," said her friend. "Gawd. Like, this is a disaster. We'll be on the news!" 

Robbie tried to ignore the media and slumped against the ambulance, eavesdropping as James arranged for the bartender to be taken back into custody. It didn't seem to be going well. 

"He was a witness under protective custody of the OBPD and they are not equipped to deal with someone who just set off incendiary devices with intent to harm. Why, yes, I _do_ think a detail should come to pick him up from the address I just gave you, that's why I’m calling, as a matter of fact." 

James's voice was honey on a razor's edge. "Do you need my badge number and the case file number to put that into motion? No?" Glancing at Robbie, James rolled his red and watering eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. "Well, yes, it's been just great talking with you, too. Have a nice day." He thumbed off the phone, and leaned on an elbow against the ambulance, thoughtfully tapping the edge of his phone against his lip. "Fucking nitwit." 

_Bet he summoned up that epithet from a textbook,_ Robbie thought. _Sounds unfamiliar enough._ "So, DEA? Could've taken him down in a squad car. Called in the plates on that SUV, in case you were wondering." 

"For our homophobic friend, the Hulk?" 

"The very one. What were you saying earlier about the plainclothes unit?" 

"Do you see them?" 

"No. Odd, too. Don't see anyone from my division." 

"Yup. Can't use a squad car." James hung his head, rubbing his eyes again. He dropped his hand and sniffled. "Someone from DEA is coming to take him back into custody." James leaned against the ambulance, out of the light of a passing journalist's news camera. "I don't like all the cameras." 

Robbie couldn't help but grin. "Might have told me you were Elliot Ness." 

James put his hands in his pockets, sighed, and looked at the ground. "Different bureau of investigation."

"Too tall to be a secret agent?" 

He shrugged an apology. "Look, you deserve an explanation, Robbie, but not here. I need to get this guy into the hands of the proper authorities and then I need a drink." 

"Not going to another bar," Robbie said, shaking his head. "And _we_ need to get him back into custody." 

James barked a startled laugh as if relieved and let his head fall back against the side of the ambulance with a dull thunk. He stared at the sky and then looked at Robbie. " _We,_ then." His eyes were watery, luminous. "I want you…" 

"You want me…?" Robbie let the words trail off. And, he thought, you could have me, too, let's be perfectly clear about that.

"Yeah, I want you." 

They stared at each other, sharing the same air and the acrid smell of tear gas and diesel fumes from the emergency vehicles. Flashing lights illuminated their faces. 

Robbie inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, just for a moment, to get some focus on the situation and his part in it. He shook his head slightly to clear it. He was undercover, for God's sake, and this was neither the time nor the place for any shenanigans. "You want me—what? To continue playing your—pickup? Your besotted rough trade? Is that it?" 

"Is that what _you_ want?" James's eyebrows shot up as his jaw went slack in confusion and then the mask was immediately back in place. "To keep playing a role?" 

_It's not a fucking role, man, but until I know exactly what is going on here, I'm not about let it go any further._ Of course he couldn't say that, not in so many words. He cocked his head, a tiny shake and dropped his gaze. 

"'Besotted rough trade,'" James murmured. "No. Not 'rough trade' because I don't find anything about you rough at all. 'Besotted,' though. Fancy word, but it doesn't suit you either." 

_That's a relief then—at least he's not revolted._ "I'm English. Fancy words come naturally to our tongues." _Christ, that sounds pretentious._

The other man bit back a grin, and with a glint in his eye, said, "Do you have a quick tongue then?" 

_Ah. Was that meant to be a double entendre? Now he's flirting with me. At a crime scene, no less._ Robbie raised his eyebrows in answer, watching for a sign in the other man's face. He gave James a tiny nod, just to see what the response would be, shenanigans be damned. Not that he actually had a quick tongue—Morse had always thought him a bit of a plodder. But he knew they weren't talking about language. Not at all. 

James looked away, and sighed, chewing on his bottom lip to cover the faint smile he wore. "Most people tend to look away when men kiss in public and won't even remember what the men looked like." 

Robbie was confused for a moment at the seemingly random comment, until he noticed a camera crew and a journalist heading towards them. "That's your plan to avoid being seen? A public display of affection? For the cameras?" 

James appraised him with a wry glance. 

A dare, is it? Robbie saw the EMT wave the media away from the back of the ambulance. Good—no one would see the bartender being treated. Except—sod it—they were now directly in the path of the news crew. 

The journalist's voice was perky and bright. "Let's get the camera over here and pan over those casualties, show off the damage to the building. Then bring it back to me and I'll toss it to the news center." The TV news crew's bright light swung to the front of the ambulance, moving slowly, closer and closer to James and Robbie as they leaned against the side of the vehicle. 

Right. Hide in plain sight, then. It had worked before, only now—now it was a choice. They could easily move away or duck their heads. 

James pushed away from the truck and suddenly stood in front of Robbie, his body blocking the chaos and cameras. He quickly held up his hand, cradled Robbie's cheek, and leaned in, his breath warm on Robbie's mouth. 

"Go on." Robbie grinned and saw an answering gleam in James's eyes: a speculative smile widening with delight as if they were at the top of that big roller coaster at Blackpool, hanging in space right before the plunge. 

_Oh, Christ—he really wants to kiss me!_ Robbie didn't have time to think anything else before James captured his mouth, hard and rough. James exhaled slowly, a soft mewl escaping his lips as he drew back, as though he was surprised by his own action. 

No more surprised than I am, Robbie thought. He anchored James with one hand behind his neck, while holding onto his waist with the other, slipping his fingers beneath the man's shirt, feeling the hard muscle of his back. 

_Let's see how you do when I up the ante in this game then._

James's eyes widened momentarily and then flickered to the slow moving white light as it approached from the side, illuminating the scene, capturing footage for the morning shows in a lengthy sweep. James's back was in the spotlight, from the top of his head to the back of his knees. Brushing his lips against Robbie's ear, he murmured, "The light isn't moving." 

"Then we'd better give them something that's not quite suitable for the morning news," Robbie whispered, as his hand splayed across James's back beneath his shirt, rucking it up at the corner as his hand moved, slowly exposing the man's back, inch by inch, for the camera. 

Robbie'd thought about this countless times over the last couple of weeks: how that pale skin would feel against his hand, how he'd palm the faintly defined muscle and how he'd slide his hand up—as he did now—and then down, and down—as he did now. He'd thought about it often enough watching the man's muscles move on stage—completely different feeling them beneath his hand. He kneaded his way down to firmly clamp his hand on James's arse, pulling him closer, locked together from waist to knee, feeling the hard, hot length of the man against him. 

"Fuck, Robbie." 

"Wouldn't say no." _Damn, had he actually said that out loud?_

James laughed in response as he nipped Robbie's earlobe, bringing their bodies closer together. They kissed lazily for a moment or two, beginning to learn each other's mouths, until James changed things up again. 

He ground his hips into Robbie's as he sucked hard on Robbie's bottom lip and, Christ, their groin to groin contact made it abundantly clear that James was just as hard as he was. Robbie was finding it difficult to focus.

He completely forgot they were doing this for the cameras, he forgot where they were, forgot everything except the feeling of James, hot against him. His hand slid from James's hip to the zip of his jeans, lingering there. 

James moved suddenly, pushing him back hard against the metal side of the ambulance, grinding against him, his palms slamming on either side of Robbie's head. 

"Shall we give them one last parting shot?" Robbie felt the words spoken against his neck as he pulled back to see James smirk, an imperceptible shake of his head. Ah, right. Drama for the camera, then. 

Robbie tried to get himself back under control. They kissed again, mostly for the camera this time, which seemed to linger lovingly on the spectacle. Anonymous gay men snogging each other at a strip club. Something for the breakfast table, Robbie thought, with the morning news and the day's weather. So much for thinking their scorching kiss would be glossed over as unseemly. Brand new day in the USA. About bloody time, too. He smiled against James's mouth, as James smiled against his own. 

Their moment of fame ended as the light moved to the reporter. "And, as you've just witnessed, couples have been reunited, unharmed, from the smoke-filled chaos. Back to you in the studio." 

As the darkness enveloped them, James dropped his forehead to Robbie's shoulder. "I'd like to try that again." 

Robbie's heart lurched in his chest. He smiled back at James as he said, "Was that a rehearsal, then?" 

James's hands cupped Robbie's shoulders and his eyes were heavy-lidded as he brushed his lips back and forth over Robbie's lips. "Are you saying my performance needs work?" He smirked as he stepped back. "Maybe you could help me with my technique later, then."

It had been years since Robbie had participated in such suggestive flirting, and he was definitely enjoying it. He wanted to offer an appropriately witty response, but his heart was still pounding so loudly he really couldn't think, let alone come up with anything saucy. So he just grinned and nodded. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, or what was yet to come, but he knew that he very much wanted to find out. At the moment, however, they both had responsibilities. He jerked his head toward the back of the ambulance.

"Shall we see how our miscreant is doing?" He looked into James's eyes and his own hurt in empathy as he saw how red and inflamed James's eyes were. 

"James, your eyes—" 

"I know. Later." James went to the back of the ambulance to wait for the bartender to be released. 

Robbie's heart clenched—too much adrenalin—he felt like he could barely breathe. He followed James, watching the other man's shoulder brushing against the side of the vehicle, and wondered why he felt it so keenly, this bond with a man he didn't even know and who was surprising him at every turn. 

The bartender had gauze pads over his eyes, a few strips of gauze wrapped around his head. "Justice is blind," he quipped as Robbie took his elbow. 

You better hope so, Robbie thought. 

"We're getting you out of here," James said. "DEA will be here any minute." 

"But I made a deal. You gotta take me into the station. They're expecting me." 

_Now that's interesting._ Robbie looked to James, who stared into the distance, tears streaming from his eyes. He wiped his cheek. 

Robbie and James guided the bartender to the far end of the parking lot, walking on either side of him, out of the white lights of the media and beyond the flashing red, blue, and yellow lights of highway patrol cars and Fire-Rescue Units. 

Robbie stopped and hung back, just a few yards away. He looked around, feeling as if someone was watching, but everyone seemed to be wrapped up in their own response to the conclusion of the drama. Cell phone cameras captured the images, people were narrating over their videos to be uploaded to YouTube and Snapchat. He wondered if the dancers were avoiding the cameras because they didn't want their friends to know what they did on Wednesday nights. 

The bar didn't look much the worse for it, though. Robbie guessed it would be mostly smoke damage inside: he'd heard a firefighter say that colored smoke bombs—the kind kids brought across the border to set off on the Fourth of July—were set off with a couple of tear gas canisters. Heavy ash content. Easy to do, meant to scare people. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt. 

Someone had removed the strip club door and set it aside next to a large piece of plywood. The news crew stood right in front to sensationalize the event for the morning news, pointing out what Robbie was sure would be called: "Hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage." He wondered if anyone had turned off the water inside. A good mop of the floor could only improve the place. 

He hung back at the edge of the parking lot, looking for the plainclothes unit, noticing again that there were no cars from his division. 

Odd. 

An unmarked black Ford pulled into the parking lot where James and the bartender were waiting. Robbie had an uneasy moment: if this was a movie, this is where they'd shoot the bartender and James before the car sped away. 

Christ, he needed to stop watching TV. 

Or worse yet, it would be that moment when James would get in and disappear with the bartender, badge and all, never to be seen again. 

He watched as James quickly pushed the guy into the back seat and then stood there, talking with the man in the suit standing beside the car, trying to avoid attracting attention. He put his hands on his hips and turned toward Robbie. 

An invitation? 

Robbie bit his lower lip as he hurried over. James hadn't made a gesture, hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow, and yet as he turned, Robbie knew it meant, 'Get over here.' 

"Gentlemen," said James. "Robbie Lewis, Ocean Beach PD. He needs to see badges and paperwork. And he has the plates for the other suspect. Black Lexus, SUV." 

"Notified local law enforcement," Robbie interjected. No way was that bartender disappearing under his watch. 

The agents rolled their eyes, but complied easily. DEA officers. They showed him a smart tablet, took his information and put out an APB for the vehicle. They sent him an email receipt for the suspect—having him sign the touchscreen with the tip of his finger. "Not taking a chance of losing someone in the inter-agency system again," quipped one of them as he re-cuffed the suspect. "Comes out of our paychecks now." 

"Oh, I'm sure that hasn't happened in months," said James, dryly. He ducked his head into the backseat to address the bartender, "See you in court." 

"Over my dead body." 

James smiled tightly and slammed the car door hard, startling a protest from everyone in the vehicle. 

"He's a real charmer." Robbie was glad to be rid of the man. "You know he cut a deal? One in a hundred people in the US are incarcerated—" 

"—And he's going to walk away." 

"Sounds like you need that drink, James." 

"Yup." 

The bright lights from the media dimmed and went out, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Officers were looping crime scene tape around the bar and securing the scene. 

They stood in the parking lot, watching as the car disappeared. Robbie shoved his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys. James stood at his shoulder. 

"Badges and forms okay?" James asked quietly, staring in the direction of the retreating car. 

"'Course—checked for the hologram and chip on the badges. Just felt my phone vibrate with the email receipt. Why?" 

James let out a pained sigh. "Because my eyes hurt like hell and I can't see a fucking thing."


End file.
